How long, since?
by Lohis
Summary: The battle for Cybertron and the scavenging of energon had ended and peace had returned to the home planet. Now, after countless of millenniums, Ratchet is finding trouble adjusting to his life in one of the apartments of a new suburban area of rebuilt Iacon. A small one shot I needed to get out of my head. Melancholy.


**I really needed to get this out of my head, it had been ghosting there for Primus knows how long. This is just a small one shot about a melancholic Ratchet and his life after the War.**

**A/N: Soundwave fans, BEWARE!  
Rating: T, with depressed themes and character death.**

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There was a knock on the door. The red mech didn't even flinch. He sat on the metallic sofa and stared into nothingness.

How long had he been sitting like this? How long had he been living like this? How long ago did the battles on Earth end and the threat of Megatron pass away to history?

The knock came again. Ratchet sighed and laid down. After a couple of klicks he could hear the slow, gentle footsteps fade away.

With a deep murmur the ambulance closed his optics and listened to the noises outside: The children playing, the cheering, parents arguing over pointless things and the wind.

The familiar gust of air that he had become accustomed to while their exile on Earth was unknown to Cybertron. It was the side result of the SEPs, or synthetic energon plants the Autobot medic had created with the aid of his human backup, Rafael.

The formula had been quite simple in the end. Though many mistakes were done along the way to discovery (namely him testing the synthetic goodness on himself and the rapid infestation of pre-SEPs inside the Autobot base) the planet had adapted well to the newcomer plant on its surface.

Optimus had once said that perhaps before the war, during the Golden Age, these kinds of plants had been native to the metallic, non-biological planet. To support his claim, the Autobot leader had shown some rare slide shots of flush, turquoise things covering the sides of roads and buildings in the Golden Age from the Archives.

But the medic had reminded unconvinced.

With a low, pain filled growl Ratchet rose to his feet and went to his energon storage. Typing in the combination he couldn't help but smile reminiscing one incident involving Miko and a fridge door handle.

It had ended with Arcee, Jack, Bumblebee and Rafael getting a good laugh and Miko a sore backside. And as for Bulkhead, he had made the mistake of snickering at his guarded gaining a painful bent from the girl's guitar (and the blames of breaking it afterwards).

The old mech pushed the door open and took out a square container closing the small safe.

The cube flickered between green and bright blue.

_A combo of synthetic and original_, he deducted, _a rare treat these days_.

He downed the burning liquid and tossed the empty cube towards the proximity of the refill table.

A giggle rang outside.

He wasn't really sure what he should be doing. After the war he had been given the apartment as a home and a lab, close enough to the main Medical Centre of Iacon (MCI as the locals called it) so if need ever arose he'd be less than a click away.

But a call never came.

In the beginning Ratchet had been hopeful, or naïve, and thought that they were just busy with insignificant repairs. Over the cycles he had grown to realize that no call would ever come, not from the MCI or any other hospital.

The dawn of the idea had caused a significant outburst on the old mech making him rampage through the small rooms shattering experiment tubes and breaking datapads.

The childish, as the medic later called it, gush of emotions had only been psychological effect on the matter.

To be frankly clear, the lack of guests or young medics seeking advice was of no interest to the Autobot. He had always been a on the antisocial side, give or take a few the red and white mech considered friends (Optimus for example).

Though, Ratchet had to admit, it would've been nice if Optimus, or anyone on the matter, would've paid a quick visit.

The Autobot leader indeed had visited his old friend a couple of times, most which considered advice, and few of old times. The medic did not blame the carrier of Matrix for this. He had a planet to rule after all, and the problem turned around to whether Ratchet got out of his own apartment to pay a long-needed call.

Nowadays the only place where the old mech went was the Swig-it-Down tavern at the corner of the next lane. There he could be found sitting by a clear cube, half-empty, staring into nothingness with rust on his cheek plates.

And there it was where he was now, blankly eyeing the news grid screen on the wall across his usual spot.

An image of a femme standing in the middle of an abundance of Cybetronias started to speak. Her voice was clear despite the distance of the grid image.

"The past foresaw the future and thus left us the means of saving ourselves: the synthetic energon data cylinder!" The reporter exclaimed and pointed at the squeezed container on the stand as if it was a relic of Primus. The crowd broke out in cheers and pushed onward to touch the saving equation of their planet.

The bar tender turned the volume lower as the shouting got stronger.

Ratchet stared at the grid and withheld a deep sigh.

_Yes, but who was the one who deciphered the formula? And what about the losses it almost created? _The medic pondered and gulped the rest of his high-grade turning his back on the news screen. His tired gaze swept through the smoky bar.

He was amazed that places like this had gained a foothold during Optimus's era. He didn't argue, though, quite the contrary, he was happy (the only thing he was happy about these days, besides the occasional high-grade).

The old medic had learned who the regulars were, where they came from and what their spark story was. In most cases, the strong mix of pure original energon with a hint of the synthetic version was more than enough to loosen the 'bots and 'cons voice boxes.

One time the Autobot even had the honor of sitting with Soundwave, the Decepticons' communications officer who, just like him, had problems fitting in.

Though the spy said nothing, it was clear to the red and white mech that it would be the last time anyone would see the silent mech. And true enough, some solar cycles later Laserbeak was found crash-landed out of exhaustion nearby a metal smelting plant. It seemed the drone had been circling over the smoldering fire pits as if trying to ask for help, or as Ratchet thought, trying to decide whether to dive after its master or break the symbiosis.

Lately the medic had heard rumors of a reporter, one young and spirited, was very much interested in interviewing soldiers from the Great War. It was being said that this show-the-history journalist was dropping in on different club houses to find long lost warriors of the War.

Ratchet had overheard a couple of the younger generation warriors discussing what they were to say to the reporter when he came by. One of them had even asked what the medic would say. To this the red and white mech had just grunted something insensible and ordered another drink.

Now, as he sat on his usual place, at his usual time with his usual drink by him, the young and spirited stepped through the tavern door. Not many raised their optics to meet the youth, less even noticed him.

Wings draped by his back, the coloring of his armor gentle lime with dark green stripes here and there the slender flyer walked briskly towards the aging medic quite well knowing the temper of his upcoming interviewee. He pulled up a chair from a table across and sat down opposite the red and white mech sliding the empty cube away.

The bar around them froze. All optics were on the old Autobot medic who had served by Optimus Prime's side in battle, the one who, according to few, had seen more and done more to science and medical knowledge than any 'bot (or 'con on the matter) had achieved in a spark cycle.

"Sir…" The reporter started, but the sound escaped his voice box.

Ratchet glanced at the youngling and murmured: "Better get that voice box of yours fixed, can't give uplifting speeches without it."

A distorted noise emitted from the mech's throat, almost recognizable as a nervous chuckle. They stared at each other for some clicks the reporter tapping the table with one of his servos.

"Sir, I was thinking if you'd be so gracious as to share your experiences."

"No deal", the medic said and stood up.

Whispers were passed among the regulars, but no one dared to move. The journalist was as surprised as the rest, if not more, by the sudden "no".

"Why..?" Was all the flyer could muster.

"Because kid", Ratchet started his tired blue optics on the mech, "you're too young."

A confused look shot past the reporter's face plates before it was replaced with anger.

"What? Don't you want that the youth of this era would hear and moreover understand their past? The sacrifices? Explain yourself, I don't follow."The flier asked rising to his feet, optic-leveling with the medic.

"Yes, yes, indeed", the red and white mech answered. "But not like this. If you truly want to tell the public of the War, tell it so that you yourself understand."

"But I do understand!"

"No, kid, no. You don't", Ratchet mumbled and walked past the confused and angry flier towards the door leaving the silence hang in the tavern's atmosphere.

The reporter paced up to the bar counter, and leaned against it eyeing the disappearing figure of the medic. "What's his problem?" He asked the tender.

Glancing at the back of his regular customer the mech answered: "Ratchet? He thinks he isn't needed any more, that he is a must-have on a scrapheap. That everything he is, everything he knows, is last millennium's stuff."

The bar tender set down the cube he was policing and handed a drink to the confused youth. The slender 'bot clicked his tongue, shrugged, picked up the cube and swallowed it in one long gulp.

_One un-got story won't end my career_, he thought, _most likely it only boosts my fame_.

The flier turned to leave when the bar tender's servo tapped his shoulder.

"Hey, lad", the older bot started, "Don't go now thinking that the medic doesn't know what he speaks of. He really does know, and trust me kid, he needs no one."

The journalist nodded and flicked a screechon on the counter. "Thanks for the tip."

"Likewise."

Only if the bar tender had known how right he was, and oh, how wrong.

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**Comments, reviews, ideas, requests... all are welcome and appreciated. ^^ _  
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